


watch over you (fall down, get up)

by fragmentaryblue



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: (because I forgot them), (e.g. I completely forgot Karen existed), (ignores select elements of canon), (sort of), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Curses, Everyone Is Alive, Feelings, Gen, Happy Ending, Heist, Hurt/Comfort, Irondad, JARVIS is in this for some reason, Light Angst, Magical Artifacts, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, New York City, Nobody is Dead, Not Spider-Man: Far From Home Compliant, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Some Humor, Tony Stark Has A Heart, continuation of Vulture's character arc, peter and tony being dumb about feelings, this was a Christmas gift and a lot of fun, unexpected comrades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:07:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28745217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragmentaryblue/pseuds/fragmentaryblue
Summary: “Sometimes Peter wished Mr. Stark would sit him down and draw him a map or something — 'here are the boarders between colleague, mentor and friend, and here is where you fall' — anything to make it clearer.”Peter’s day starts off fine, and then, as you might have guessed, it takes a turn.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 22
Kudos: 160





	watch over you (fall down, get up)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1Whateam_wildcats1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1Whateam_wildcats1/gifts).



> So, my first foray into the MCU and here it is! I'm not sure I would have got my confidence up to write in this fandom if it hadn't been as a Christmas gift for the lovely 1Whateam_wildcats1 (remind me to tease you about ur name later, I'm glad you gave it up so I could dedicate this). I hope you enjoyed it <3

“If you slide down anymore in your seat you’re gonna be under the table, man.”

Ned poked his arm and Peter tried not to groan, or outwardly show that he’d been half asleep for the past hour of their English lit class.

“You could have got away with it too, if you hadn’t been drooling,” Ned snickered. Peter hastily sat up and wiped his mouth as surreptitiously as possible on the sleeve of his hoodie. 

The raised eyebrow MJ gave him when he caught her eye across the room said he hadn’t been so successful. 

Ned glanced around them quite obviously before leaning in and whispering, “Rough patrol?” Bless him, he meant well. His eyes were wide with worry as they often were lately whenever _the other guy_ came up in conversation. Since the incident with the Vulture, Ned had responded to his friend’s extracurricular activities with a mixture of concerned mother-hen and bright-eyed excitement. Peter appreciated the concern, he really did. Only, now that aunt May also knew his little secret (which had been a spectacular failing of his spidey-sense, thank you faulty biology), it felt like it was only a matter of time before they conspired to form their own two-man operation; wrap-peter-up-in-blankets-and-force-feed-him-whenever-he-opens-his-mouth. 

Seriously, Ned brought two sandwiches to school every day now, and whenever Peter tried to object he spun a story about how his mother wanted him to get more carbohydrates in his diet because he’d started to try out weight lifting — but he was never hungry enough to eat the second sandwich, so Peter you’d really be doing me a favour by eating it!

First of all, they both knew Ned had never lifted a weight in his life, unless you counted some of their lego star wars models. Some of those things were hefty. Secondly, the second sandwich was always peanut butter, and Peter loved peanut butter. As Ned well knew. Thirdly, Ned was never too full to eat _anything_ , as Peter well knew. 

But Ned was as stubborn as he was kind. So he was very stubborn indeed. 

“No more than usual,” Peter whispered back, “I just _maybe_ , possibly haven’t been getting enough sleep in between schoolwork and… my extracurriculars.” 

“By not enough, do you really mean non-existent?” Ned said, disapproval evident in his voice. 

“Has aunt May been giving you lessons in that?” Peter whispered incredulously, and then tried his best to look innocent when their teacher cleared her throat at the front of the classroom. 

Ned didn’t help his case with Peter or their teacher by entirely failing at not looking guilty. 

When she turned away to continue writing notes on the board, Ned leant back in. “Hey, why don’t we do something together tonight for a change, a new season of that Star Wars TV show came out yesterday and I need someone to binge it with.” Once again, he was utterly transparent about the reason for his request, but Peter couldn’t begrudge him that. He was tired, and lately he and Ned hadn’t had any time to just be kids and hang out together. Sometimes Peter forgot that there was other stuff to do besides homework and patrol — he always felt vaguely guilty when he took any time for himself. He knew it was irrational. But crime never did conveniently wait for him to book it into his schedule, no matter how much Peter wished it would.

But maybe tonight he could let it wait an hour or two. 

Peter was about to reply when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Sneaking it out and opening it under the desk, he saw he had a text from an unknown number. 

_Come by after school and I might have something of interest for you._

Peter had to blink to make sure he’d read it right, but still wasn’t sure what to make of it. An unknown number… but obviously the sender felt familiar enough to expect him to know who they were. Unless they’d gotten the wrong number, which seemed more plausible. He’d generally assume it was superhero related, but texts about that side of his life always came from Happy.

He showed it to Ned for a second opinion.

“Uh, Peter you never told me you did drugs.” Was Ned’s input.

“Dude, no! That is _not_ what this is… although now that you say it, it does kinda sound like that. Maybe someone’s dealer got the wrong number? You’d think they’d be more careful.” 

Ned snorted. “Only you would be concerned about a drug dealer having bad bookkeeping practices.”

Peter rolled his eyes. Ned leaned back over the text and frowned, “you don’t think it’s someone threatening you, do you?”

“What? And they didn’t even say who they were? I don’t think ‘I have something of interest for you’ sounds all that threatening.”

“No, well, they could be trying to lure you in, you know, like a guy in a white van offering you candy… only he’d be offering you science, or something.”

Peter gave Ned a look he hoped expressed the level of unimpressed he felt. “You think I’d get into a stranger’s van if they offered me science?” Peter said.

Ned raised both his eyebrows and gave Peter a _look_. 

“Hey, I take _great_ offence to that! Only if it was a new transmission electron microscope _and_ a bag of sour worms.” He grinned. 

Ned muffled his laugh into the sleeve of his jacket, and they were both saved from the second dry cough their teacher directed at them by the bell ringing. 

Peter swung his backpack over his shoulder and decided there was really only one way to get answers. He had never done well holding his curiosity at bay for long.

_Who is this and do you happen to own a white van?_ he messaged back, before reconsidering slightly and sending a hasty _not that that’s necessarily a bad thing but I should let you know I (probably) won’t fall for it_ and then _I think you might have the wrong number_. Damn it, he really should have led with that one. He shoved his phone into his pocket before he could overthink it anymore and headed to his next class.

In fact, he’d almost forgotten about it by the time he felt his phone buzz during his last class of the day. 

Scrambling to get it out of his pocket, he saw he’d actually missed a series of texts from the number, and ah, whoops, that was probably because he’d been in metal tech and hadn’t heard it over the sounds of enthusiastic buzz sawing. 

_I’m mildly concerned by your self-preservation instincts_ the first message read, followed by _maybe I should have been more specific, come by the tower after school, kid._

The final message capped it all off with _I might have a white van lying around somewhere, maybe we should include a training simulation with it to catch you up on some Stranger Danger lessons._

Oh. _Oh_. There was only one person in the world who called him kid. And owned a tower. Peter felt the back of his neck begin to turn red as he typed out _Mr Stark?_

_The one and only_ he got back immediately.

Well, shit. 

He chewed on his thumbnail to smother a growing sense of mortification and sent back a strained _sorry about that, see you later!_

Peter slumped forwards onto the desk and buried his head in his crossed arms. This was a particular brand of embarrassment he knew well, but thought he might have finally moved past with Mr. Stark. Of the _I’ve just made a fool of myself_ variety. Not to be confused with the _I’ve made a mistake and Mr. Stark has had to fix it and now I feel like I’m 12 years old_ variety, although they did often come as a set. 

“I’m not sure sleeping through another class is the best way to prepare for our Spanish quiz,” Ned said as he sat down next to him, plunking his bag under their desk. 

“Not sleeping,” Peter grunted, “looking for my dignity.”

“So you’ll be here in time for class to start tomorrow then,” Ned remarked. When Peter’s face surfaced wearing a reproachful look, Ned just grinned and Peter realised, too late, that had been his ploy. 

“Alright, let’s have at it,” Ned nudged him.

Peter sighed, “Turns out the mystery drug dealer is actually one genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist who didn’t think he needed to put a name to his cryptic message.” 

“ _What!_ ” Ned said, voice rising a few octaves. “Tony Stark sent you a text, like, _personally_?” 

“Yeah,” Peter said, “I can’t believe I thought a _drug dealer_ was more plausible.” 

“Well, I mean, he’s never done that before— right?” Ned asked.

“Right.” Peter said, trying and failing to imagine why Mr. Stark hadn’t just got Happy to send him a message. Surely he had more important things to be doing than… talking to Peter. Although he wasn’t being entirely fair, Mr. Stark _had_ made slightly more effort to involve him in things since the whole Vulture incident — sporadic updates (via Happy) on when other Avengers were in or around New York, notifying Peter about any slightly more high-powered threats he needed to be aware of. But Mr. Stark had also distanced himself in a way that was hard to quantify since they hadn’t exactly been close before. 

But a definite air of hesitation hung over their interactions, now. On the one hand, Mr. Stark did appear to show him a certain level of respect, for what he did as Spiderman and his reasons behind doing them — which even in his wildest dreams Peter would have never imagined possible. On the flip side, Mr. Stark also seemed to be treating him more like a colleague than….. well, his protégé, which was the direction Peter had thought (and hoped) they were heading in. The texts he’d just received were the most personal Mr. Stark had treated him in months. 

It was confusing. But their relationship had been confusing from the start, and sometimes Peter wished Mr. Stark would sit him down and draw him a map or something — _here are the boarders between colleague, mentor and friend, and here is where you fall_ — anything to make it clearer. Peter had lost one too many mentor ( _father_ ) figures to want to start projecting his emotional needs onto someone who was in no way capable of fulfilling them. That would end in major awkwardness for everyone involved. 

Ned clapped him on the shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts. “We’ll postpone that TV marathon for another night, yeah? But you have to promise to tell me every single detail! I’m not even ashamed to say it.”

Peter laughed. “Absolutely, you’ll be the first to know.” 

So that was how Peter found himself slinging his way through the city straight after school, backpack secured tight to his shoulders, hastily typing out a text to aunt May to let her know he’d be home late. 

After a particularly close brush with a passing pigeon (which squawked so loudly in his face he almost lost his web) he tucked his phone away and put all his attention towards manoeuvring himself around the concrete monoliths and smog-filled air of downtown Manhattan.  


This was a freedom Peter fought for, it was almost as crucial as his right to protect those who needed his help. The rise and fall, and the weightlessness that came as he slung himself into an empty space over and over again. The peace that came with floating through the air hundreds of stories up, where city sounds were drowned out by the rush of wind in his ears, and he could allow himself for one fleeting moment to relinquish some of the barriers he kept in place. The space he made for himself up above the busy streets was his and his alone, and it sometimes seemed like another planet entirely. A welcome and necessary limbo, where he was neither wholly Peter Parker nor entirely Spiderman. The moment before one of them had to step forwards. 

He whipped round the corner of a chunky concrete and glass skyscraper, startling a group of people partying out on one of the balconies, and then dipped back into a downswing, enjoying the warming flashes of sun as he whipped through them. They spread like drizzled honey over the city as the sun set into a molten pool on the horizon.

Stark tower seemed to appear through the hazy afternoon light like a visage. An oasis in the centre of the chaotic city with its smooth, sleek lines and, for Peter, a place he was starting to associate with one he could comfortably be both Peter Parker _and_ Spiderman. Which was almost unprecedented for him, since while Aunt May had accepted his alter-ego, she didn’t exactly _like_ it.

He was glad Mr. Stark hadn’t decided to entirely give up the tower after all. While he hadn’t explicitly said so, Peter suspected Tony had kept it in order to keep an eye on him. It had become his usual debriefing place with Happy, who now insisted Peter come see him in person if he had the time and sometimes even took him out for hotdogs afterwards. (When Peter told him he was quickly becoming one of Peter’s favourite Avengers — don’t tell Mister Stark that though! — Happy had blushed right up to the roots of his hair.) 

But as Peter catapulted himself up and onto the roof of Stark tower, it wasn’t Happy who was waiting for him, but Tony Stark. Given the text he’d sent, Peter should have expected it. But somehow he hadn’t thought Mr. Stark would actually be there in person. 

“Glad to see you made it here in one piece. If you’d taken any longer, I might have had to call 911 and report a kidnapping.” Mr Stark said, tone very dry. 

Peter rolled his eyes, which he could only get away with because he was wearing the mask. “It’s not like you encounter very many kidnappers _above_ street level.”

Mr Stark snorted and pulled open the sliding door behind him. “Come on, get in here before we tempt fate.” 

Peter happily followed him out of the buffeting wind and into the penthouse, which happened to be the only floor that still had furnishings. Or so Peter thought.

“This way,” Mr. Stark said, heading over to one of the elevators, which slid open as they approached. 

“Hey Jarvis,” Peter said, pulling off his mask and grinning at the ceiling. 

“Mr. Parker, always good to see you well,” came the disembodied voice, a touch of genuine pleasure in it. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Mr. Stark said, “He says he doesn’t play favourites, but you know, I’m not sure I believe him.”

Peter laughed and rubbed the back of his head, feeling a strange mix of chuffed and embarrassed. “I’m sure if more people treated him like, well, a person, he’d have a lot more favourites.”

“Yeah, kid, I know.” Mr. Stark said, smiling at him for a moment with something that Peter might have called pride if it was anyone else, before clearing his throat and looking away. 

The elevator doors slid open and Peter immediately forgot everything else.

“You refitted a lab back into the building!” Peter exclaimed. Walking out into the cool white room, which was outfitted with heavy-duty bench tops and cabinets stacked with equipment. Through the oversized windows, tinted to cut out the glare that usually played havoc with Peter’s heightened senses, there was a breathtaking view over New York city. As he looked out, lights winked on across the landscape of high rises, shining like so many neon stars under the evening sky. 

“What kinda stuff will you be making here?” Peter turned back to ask Mr. Stark, who had his arms crossed and a small, crooked smile on his face as he watched Peter geek out.

“Not much, considering this is your lab.” He said with the satisfaction of a man knowing he had just dropped the other shoe. 

_What!?_

“What?” Peter said. “You can’t- I mean, what do you mean _my_ lab?”

“Yup. All for you, I figure it can’t be that easy maintaining a secret identity and continuing to use your school lab space for your Silly String production.”

“ _Webs_ ,” Peter informed him, but he couldn’t help grinning helplessly as he said it. “Thank you, Mr. Stark, really.”

“No problem, kid.” Mr. Stark’s smile relaxed into something softer, before he walked over to one of the benches and rapped his knuckles on it. “Just let Happy know if you need anything else, or if it’s something too science jargon-y flick me a text and I’ll get on it. I’ve fitted a panel by the door on the roof that you can use to get in when neither of us are around.

“Oh, and in future, I’ll be sure to sign off any and all texts with a full signature.” Mr. Stark sent him a wink.

“My friend thought you were a drug dealer,” Peter blurted, and then immediately regretted he’d been born. Foot, meet mouth. 

“Huh,” Mr Stark said, and it looked like he was trying very hard to keep from laughing, “there’s a first time for everything, I guess.” He frowned, his expression turning thoughtful. “Well, maybe not the first time, but…” seeing the look on Peter’s face he added "you know what, never mind.”

Peter really wanted to know, very much, but in that moment Mr. Stark clapped his hands together and glanced at his watch. 

“Well, let me know if there’s anything. But now, I think it’s time for both of us to get going.” He started back towards the lift and the easy joking air between them dissipated like smoke in a sudden breeze. 

“Yeah.” Peter said, trying not to sound disappointed. Aunt May would be expecting him and he needed to get home sooner rather than later if he wanted to get in a short patrol before he crashed for the night. 

But he wasn’t sure how long it would be before he met Mr Stark again. If he went by their recent track record, it could be months, and Peter was beginning to get whiplash with all the mixed signals Mr. Stark was sending. One minute they were chatting easy as anything, the next it was radio silence. Now out of the blue, he goes and makes Peter a lab? Once upon a time Peter would have taken this in his stride, happy that he had the chance to speak to Tony Stark at all. But now he knew better, knew the _man_ behind the image to be just as fallible as everyone else. 

He wanted to know why Mr. Stark bothered to do these things for Peter if he was never actually going to see them through. Maybe… maybe Mr. Stark still saw him as a slightly annoying but useful kid? 

The idea hurt, more than Peter expected it would.

“Do you think you’ll come by the lab?” Peter asked as they got back in the lift.

“Oh,” Mr. Stark said, “sorry kid, but I’m going to be busy. I’m sure you’re more than capable of performing genius feats of science without me.” He grinned at Peter, but it faded when he saw Peter’s strained smile. It sounded to Peter like Mr. Stark had all but confirmed what he’d just been thinking. 

“Listen, I’ll be out of the country for a bit, business deals and the like, boring stuff. Let’s take a rain check and talk about this again when I’ve got more time.” 

Which translated into never, if Peter knew anything at all about Tony Stark. 

“I thought Happy mentioned you were taking a break from the business side of things to work in your lab?” Peter couldn’t help himself from asking. He bit his lip, knowing how much he was pushing this, but unable to stop himself. 

Peter saw Mr. Stark freeze slightly in his peripheral vision. “Ah.” Mr. Stark said. 

Peter stared resolutely ahead to where their reflections blurred in the panelled wall of the lift, and tried to figure out what he was feeling right now. Rejection wasn’t new to him, nor was resignation, though it surprised him a little. Spiderman wouldn’t accept this lying down, but _Peter_ would. 

He’d tried to be more Spiderman than Peter Parker around Tony Stark since the get-go, the better to protect himself and remind himself that their relationship should be grounded in business, not friendship. But Mr. Stark had a way of pushing beyond boundaries as if they didn’t apply to him. He’d always seen _Peter Parker_ , even when he was Spiderman.

For the first time, Peter wished he hadn’t. 

The lift stopped and the doors slid open. Peter assumed Jarvis was tactfully holding them open when neither of them made to leave.

“Peter,” Mr. Stark said and stopped, expelling a sharp breath as if he were unsure how to continue. Peter glanced at him and wondered when Mr. Stark had turned to face him. 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to interact any more than necessary. You understand, don’t you? I know you look at me and see some sort of mentor, but I just can’t be that for you, kid, I’m sorry.” Mr Stark finally said, voice firm even as he turned to look out at the lobby instead of meeting Peter’s eyes. 

Peter had kind of known, deep down, that this reception had been waiting for him on the other side of the door he’d just forced open. So why did it have to hurt so much?

“Right,” Peter said, pushing himself from the lift and into the wider space beyond, feeling suddenly claustrophobic. “Yeah, no, I understand, thanks for clearing it up.” The manners that had been drilled into him since a young age had him turning back around just briefly to say, “Well, see you around Mr. Stark.” 

“Peter-” Mr. Stark began, but the phone in his pocket started to emit a low bell-like chime. Then he was frowning and pulling it out to answer it. _Great, already moved on then,_ thought Peter. Suddenly he had to be anywhere but here.

He turned, pulling on his mask and feeling instant relief in the way it dampened everything around him to a much more manageable level. In a few quick strides he was at the door, which was sliding open before him without so much as a touch. Sometimes he really did love Jarvis.

He was halfway across the roof when he heard Mr. Stark shout something after him, but by then he was already airborne, flinging himself over the side of the tower into blessed empty space. The wind in his ears washed away any words Mr. Stark might have called out to him. He swung a haphazard path deeper into the city, not really minding which direction he took so long as it led him away.

_Stupid, Parker, allowing yourself to hope for anything more._ He suddenly missed Uncle Ben with such an ache his limbs seized up, as if they were trying to curl in on themselves, and he almost didn’t land his next web. He slung himself onto the nearest deserted roof, where he curled up next to the edge and focussed on breathing evenly. Uncle Ben would know exactly what to say in this moment. Although if Ben was still alive, Peter reflected, he probably wouldn’t be having this problem in the first place. 

Pulling his mask up to wipe his nose, Peter suddenly realised how quiet it was. Looking up and around, he saw that he’d landed just a street away from the Met. Central Park stretched out behind it in a soft, dark swathe, and Peter guessed he’d subconsciously been heading towards the quietest, least intrusive place in the city. 

Down the street the lights suddenly cut off, and the tension Peter thought he’d rid himself of returned tenfold. Beneath it, the prickle of his spidey-sense made the hairs rise on the back of his neck, and he wondered if the place he’d landed hadn’t been such a coincidence after all. 

He crept closer to the edge of the roof, peering out as far as he dared towards the part of the street that had gone dark — just outside the main entrance to the Met. The street, he saw, had been blocked off at either end, perhaps left-over from — or preparation for — some event, which meant zero street traffic and pedestrians. Peter allowed himself some relief for that. Even though, he realised, it had probably been done deliberately. 

He could make out little through the darkness, even with his enhanced eyesight, until the back of a large truck parked some way off down the street was thrown open and helmed figures began to emerge from within. 

Peter’s spidey-sense started to ratchet up until it became a steady pulse of _danger!_ at the back of his mind, and his breath seemed to stick in his throat as one last figure emerged from the truck. At first he didn’t really know why — they didn’t appear especially menacing except that their bulky build had an awkward look to it. 

Then, everything became startlingly clear when the bulk unfurled with a metallic _whirr_ into a set of large wings. 

_No…_ it couldn’t be! 

And yet, they looked suspiciously like the wings Vulture used. But the Vulture was safely locked up on Ryker’s Island! Peter thought he would have heard if there had been a prison break. Even so, what would the Vulture be doing outside the Met on a Wednesday evening? Not exactly the go-to destination after a jailbreak. 

Not unless he was going to peacefully peruse art in the moonlight, which Peter seriously doubted. Especially with his entourage of armour wearing, gun-toting men — Peter would happily bet all his lego Star Wars models that they weren’t there to admire Vincent Van Gogh’s self-portrait either. Unless it was to gloat as they cut it from its frame. 

It struck Peter that this was a relatively small operation, just five of them in total. Still, the Vulture — if it was him — posed a significant threat all on his own. 

The winged figure leapt from the ground, snagged two men by the straps on their body armour and soared upwards over the gothic style parapet lining the edge of the Met’s ornate roofline — and yeah, it really did look like the Vulture. Peter watched as the winged figure swept back down to grab the last two men. 

The movement was the same. Peter hadn’t forgotten the jagged, yet powerful way the Vulture had cut through the open air, far less graceful than Peter was on his webs, but way more deadly. The machinery _looked_ the same, to Peter’s untrained eye. 

It _could_ be someone else using his machine, but Peter somehow doubted that. He couldn’t give a reason for his suspicion — maybe it was a spidey-sense thing. 

Which begged the question, _how_? If it really was the Vulture, he must have been sprung from the outside — no way anyone broke out from Ryker’s under their own steam. But there was no time to ponder answers. Peter saw one of the figures on the roof toss down a small round object, like a grenade, and Peter didn’t even have time to tense before a sudden surge of crackling white electricity webbed over the roof for a few short seconds before subsiding. The gear they were wearing must have insulating properties because it didn’t seem to affect them. Probably some sort of EMP, Peter reckoned, since the figures didn’t seem concerned about tripping any alarms as they brute-forced the roof door in and disappeared into the building. 

Peter stood, certain this was now a break-in and that he had the right to intervene (one too many mistakes with covert government-run operations had taught him better than to rush in without first assessing the situation). He webbed his way onto the Met’s roof, leery that the charge might still be live. Thankfully when he touched down he remained un-singed. He made for the black hole of the open doorway, now looking increasingly eerie as the darkness became more apparent around him. It was hard to find true darkness in a city like New York. But with the street lights out, the large park behind the building absorbed what little light was left. It was dark in a way that had Peter’s heart pounding a rapid beat as he peered ahead into the gloom.

A sudden vibration in his backpack almost made Peter jump a foot in the air. He hastily wriggled the bag off to silence his phone. When he pulled it out, the screen showed a number of missed calls from Tony Stark.

_Oh, shit._

Peter bit his lip, feeling slightly guilty. He hadn’t heard most of them while swinging across the city. But— no. Tony would be calling about their meeting at the tower, and getting told off by his estranged mentor-slash-colleague wasn’t high on Peter’s current list of priorities. 

The alternative, that Mr. Stark was calling to make further apologetic explanations of his enforced distance, was even worse. 

Switching off his phone and zipping it back into the bag, Peter webbed it to the back of one of the ornately carved heads that adorned the roof’s edge. That _should_ ensure he remembered where he’d left it.

He approached the pitch black doorway with more confidence than he felt. As soon as he stepped into the shadows beyond the entrance he jumped up to catch a hold of the ceiling, continuing from there upside-down using the grip of his fingers and toes. It was staggering how many people never looked up — not that Peter was complaining, it worked totally to his advantage. 

Having a moment to think as he crawled along the ceiling, he had to admit that his own mood had been strange this evening — his meeting with Mr. Stark notwithstanding. His hesitance – when he usually forged full speed ahead – was odd, and his sense of danger continued to drum a steady rhythm at the base of his neck even though he’d already identified the threat. 

But then again, the Vulture had been the nearest miss he’d had since becoming Spiderman. He still sometimes woke in the middle of the night struggling to breathe, with the feeling of his ribcage being crushed under meters of solid concrete. The Vulture- no, _Adrian Toombs_ — he was a real person after all — had scared Peter in a way no-one had been able to before. That’s how that whole mess had started, really, forgetting to consider the very real human motivations and consequences that a mask obscures. 

Because Adrian Toombs knew Peter as _Peter_. And for a moment back then, Peter hadn’t been able to separate Toombs from the adult figure he should have been able to trust, and the super villain who was trying to kill him. 

He wasn’t entirely sure how he would react if he came face to face with him again. 

He tried to put that thought from his mind as he crept, quiet as he could, down each level of the grandiose building, over ornately carved cornices and vaulted ceilings. Occasionally he came across the prone body of a security guard, but after checking each one, he was relieved to find they were still breathing, though mildly concussed. 

Following the faint sound of footsteps and the fresher scents of leather and gun oil down to the ground floor was the easy part. But figuring out what to do when he pursued the intruders’ trail to an arching doorway, above which read _Thomas J. Watson Library_ , was less simple. 

What on earth were they doing _there_? Peter was certain they would be stealing priceless art, and to be sure, the library contained some expensive old manuscripts. But they couldn’t compare to the value of some of the paintings and sculptures they’d passed on their way down. 

He eased his way forwards until he could peer under the top of the archway. The room beyond was filled with shafts of moonlight from a bank of tall windows at the far end of the room. Shelves upon shelves filled the walls from floor to high ceiling, dampening the noise the men made as they forced their way through a door at the far end of the room, with the help of a kick from one of the Vulture’s heavy metal boots. 

Peter scrambled to follow via the ceiling, confusion intensifying as he reached the doorway, over which was the sign _Archives_. He flipped himself down onto the floor, landing lightly on the balls of his feet, and followed the sound of clunking footsteps down a twisting stairwell and into a more nebulous basement level. 

The others hadn’t bothered to turn on any lights, so it was much darker here than above, where at least the moonlight reached. _Moonlight_. Shit, it was later than Peter had thought. He hoped he could wrap this up quickly, but dared not think it too loudly, lest his Parker luck kick in and turn that sentiment on its head. 

He crept along the gloomy subterranean corridors until he came to a glass wall that separated off a lab-like space. Inside Peter could see lined up in a dark corner a collection of fragile ancient-looking books in glass cases, some of which were wrapped in a dark velvet cloth. 

The Vulture was standing back as two of the men carefully extracted one of these cloth swathed containers from the others, and Peter took the opportunity to toe open the glass door whilst they were all looking the other way. Slipping silently into the room, he took to the ceiling again, pulling himself up into a shadowed corner just before the men turned around again. The Vulture, like the rest of the men, still wore his helmet — making it hard to tell where exactly their eyes were. Peter would have to watch out for that. 

Peter watched on with strangely bated breath as one of the men reached to pull off the cloth covering, unsure what to expect even if, logically, he knew it would be a book. 

And it was a book. A book with strangely modulating, unrecognisable symbols inscribed on its dark leather cover — but that was all Peter could observe before the situation unravelled spectacularly. 

As soon as the cloth was pulled off, Peter’s spider sense ratcheted into overdrive, screaming through his skull. Peter raised his head and stared directly into the dark reflective surface of the Vulture’s helmet, which was pointed straight at him. 

His body moved on autopilot as he flipped down to the centre of the room, not quite as nimbly as he’d have liked with his senses going haywire and tension thrumming through him like a live wire. 

“Somehow, I’m not so sure we’re all here for a spot of light reading,” Peter said with grin that felt more like a grimace under his mask. He flicked a web at the nearest man’s gun, taking advantage of his momentary surprise and flinging it to the ceiling, where it remained stuck. A ricochet of bullets spat at him from the opposite direction and he flipped backwards, hissing as the concrete floor beneath his feet shattered under the fire. 

The Vulture growled, a deep and menacing sound. But instead of launching himself at Peter as he’d expected, he unfolded his metallic wings to protect the last two men, who had drills out and were busy removing the glass case from around the book. 

Peter flipped and dodged the fire as best he could in the confined space. Inevitably, it brought him within range of the unarmed man who did not let that fact impair his ability to be lethal in the least. He lunged at Peter with startling speed, and Peter only just managed to flip over his head and land a glancing kick to the small of the man’s back before the man turned and came at him again. 

Jeez, these guys were definitely more highly trained than the average Joe he went up against on his evening patrols. 

“So I’ve always wanted to know, do you guys get dental cover in your contracts?” Peter said, panting as he traded carefully restrained blows with the man, while trying to keep an eye out for the other, who had ducked behind a bench top to reload. 

Actually, that gave him an idea. Ignoring the carefully perplexed look of his opponent ( _no dental then, that sucks_ ), he webbed himself into a sliding swing over the nearest bank of cabinets, startling the man crouched behind it with his gun, whose heartbeat Peter was sure he’d detected. The man fumbled to get the bullets back into the chamber and swing the gun up, but Peter was faster, hefting the man by the straps on his armour, just as the Vulture had done earlier. Peter swung him bodily at his comrade, bowling both of them head over heels into a suitably dusty corner. A few well placed webs ensured they wouldn’t be joining the fight again. 

“And that, in the bowling world, is what we like to call a half strike, ladies and gentlemen.” Peter said, already swinging himself back in anticipation of the remaining men. 

“ _Shut up_ ,” he thought he heard one of them groan. Peter huffed a laugh through his mask. But his amusement was short-lived when he saw the Vulture turn abruptly towards him and- yeah, they had the book out now. 

His senses seemed to fritz in and out as he looked at it and he shook his head like a dog, trying in vain to knock something back into place. He took an involuntary step backwards and, to his surprise, the Vulture stopped advancing, looking back at the book and then again at Peter. It was in that split second Peter realised that the grating pulse of _danger!_ prickling all the way down his spine was not a response to the Vulture at all, but to the _book_. 

“What _is_ that?” He hissed, fists clenched, body falling into a defensive crouch as the Vulture engaged one of the guns on his vambrace, pointing it levelly at Peter’s chest. 

“Something you’d best forget about, boy.” The Vulture snarled, before raising the barrel of the gun higher to point at his head. 

That, Peter could work with. 

He ducked, quick as lightning, and sent two shots of web into the rotating engines on the underside of the Vulture’s wings, jamming them so that they couldn’t close. 

He bit his lip as a bullet whizzed by just where he had been moments before, fired by one of the trigger-happy men (not the Vulture, which in itself was interesting in the split second he had to clock it). Peter flinched backwards, recovered his balance and launched himself over their heads. Narrowly brushing the ceiling, he grabbed one of the Vulture’s wings as he passed. His momentum pulled the Vulture sharply around and, unfortunately for his teammates, bowled them over under his open wingspan. 

“Full strike!” Peter muttered to himself. He only had time to web one of the fallen men in place before the Vulture, giving up on whatever was holding him back, lunged at Peter. 

“Do you think this is a _game_?” He hissed, voice modulator making the words stretch into something wretched sounding, closing one taloned hand over Peter’s arm in a crushing hold. Before Peter could wrench it back, the Vulture’s other hand came up to grasp his neck. 

Peter gasped, clutching at the hand but unable to pull it off with just one arm. He tried to angle his legs to push away from him, but they were too close for Peter to get any momentum behind it. 

“Do you understand what this is?” The Vulture said, turning Peter so that he could see the book, which lay atop the shattered glass of its case. 

“This book is known as the _Darkhold_. Heard of it?” He shook Peter until he gasped. Peter shook his head.

“It’s a book of extremely dark spells. Come in contact with it and it is likely to take over your mind and turn it inside out. People aren’t the same after it’s gotten to them, or so I’ve heard. It seeks out the darkest parts of a person’s soul and makes sure that’s all that’s left.” 

“So who’s hired you to steal it, then?” Peter ground out, trying not to let the intimidation tactic work. 

“Smart,” the Vulture bit out, “but then you always did have more brains that you knew how to use.” 

Okay, definitely Toombs then. Peter tried not to let this panic him, but things were getting a little fuzzy anyway, what with the whole air constriction thing going on. 

Behind Toombs, the last man rose to his feet and pointed his gun at Peter. Seeing Peter’s eyes widen, the Vulture turned slightly and let out a breath of frustration.

“Stay back,” he barked.

“You haven’t as much authority here as you think,” the gunman countered.

“If you shoot before we’re done talking, I’ll put a bullet in _you_.” Vulture replied, tone scarily pleasant. The other man made a low harsh sound, like a caustic laugh, but he didn’t shoot. Instead, he bent to carefully cover the book in the cloth. Only then did he pick it up and being packing it into a reinforced metal case.

“Why _you_?” Peter said as Toombs turned back to him, frantically trying to think of a way to get free. “You’re not exactly the most obvious choice, having to break you out of prison and all — after all this is clearly meant to be a secret operation. Whoever hired you must have some serious pull.” 

“You’re asking questions you really shouldn’t.” Vulture said, his fist tightening imperceptibly. Peter made a high strangled noise and the Vulture abruptly loosened his grip. 

That was all the encouragement Peter needed. He shoved his hand beneath the Vulture’s sturdy metal gauntlet and found the spot where it transitioned into a thinner fabric glove, and — sending a prayer that this would work and not fry them both — ejected his taser webs into the Vulture’s hand. 

The Vulture cursed and dropped him. As Peter fell, he swept out a leg to overbalance him. Toombs dropped heavily, unable to compensate with the engines on his wings blocked, the deadweight of them pulling him backwards. Peter bounced back up and kicked the fourth man’s gun into his face before he had time to respond. Without giving himself time to second guess it, he grabbed the wrapped bundle out of the case and sprinted from the room. 

_Shit shit shit_. Having the thing so close to him was sapping both his energy and focus. He tried his best to run in a straight line up and out of the archives and back through the library. He had just reached the grand, echoing entrance hall when an angry metallic whirring sound reached him. Peter barely managed to leap and shoot a web at the high ceiling before a forceful hand was dragging him back down by the ankle. He yelped and landed heavily, the book tumbling away from him and slipping out from its wrappings, coming to rest at the base of a massive statue of a seated Pharaoh. 

The Vulture made to grab it, but Peter webbed both of his wings, jerking him backwards, then started to try securing them to the floor. 

It was no use, as soon as Peter secured one wing, Toombs cut it with the razor edge of his other one. He seemed to have burnt throughout the webs covering his engines and now had full mobility again. 

Amid all the commotion, the fourth armoured guard slipped into the room. His helmet had a piece missing and Peter could see the darkness of his eyes as he clocked the book. He stopped suddenly and stared, seemingly transfixed, as if he was seeing something else. He made for the book with renewed purpose, and picked it up without bothering to cover it.

The Vulture finished breaking through the last of Peter’s webs, but paused when he caught sight of the other man.

“Put it down, Rohan.” He snapped. Peter, standing behind him, hesitated — something was holding him back. Rohan had his gun up, but from this vantage point, Peter couldn’t tell if it was pointed at him or Toombs. 

“You know,” Rohan said slowly, his gaze still intent on the book, “maybe I didn’t make it clear before, _I don’t take my orders from you_.” He looked up, a manic glint in his eyes, and then fired three rounds into the Vulture’s chest. 

Taken off guard, Toombs stumbled under the impact and fell backwards. If he hadn’t been wearing an armoured chest plate, he’d be dead. Peter leapt over him, aiming to yank Rohan’s gun away. But Rohan had ducked behind the statue, throwing a small metal ball along the ground towards Peter’s feet. 

A hand suddenly pulled him back, throwing him to the ground. A massive explosion ricocheted around the hall, sending a blinding flash of fiery orange light outwards. A pair of metallic wings closed over him as the Vulture braced them both against the flames and flying debris. 

Peter coughed as the air cleared, staring incredulously up into Toombs’ helmeted face. 

“Save it.” Toombs growled, before pulling himself to his feet and Peter with him. 

A burst of gunfire sent them diving in opposite directions as Rohan appeared through the cloud of dust. 

“Supposed to be causing _minimum_ damage.” Peter heard Toombs mutter to himself, and Peter came to the sudden, bizarre realisation that Toombs actually cared about leaving the other artwork undamaged. It made a weird kind of sense, actually, given all the art Peter had seen hanging on his walls during his brief and uncomfortable visit to his house. 

“I think this guy’s gone the full ‘One Ring’ on us,” Peter said, staring at where Rohan was doing a very good Golem impersonation. He was whispering intently to the book in his hand and stroking his fingers down the cover. He seemed to have run out of bullets because he’d discarded the gun by his feet.

Toombs continued to defy his expectations by actually snorting in amused agreement. 

“You wouldn’t understand what it is to have your mind opened and ready to be penetrated by the secrets of the universe,” Rohan hissed at them.

Peter cringed. “Why’d you have to say it like that, man?” 

“Drop the book, Rohan. That _thing_ has gotten inside your head.” Toombs said. He raised his arm and aimed his vambrace gun. 

“ _Never_.” Rohan snarled, stretching his arm toward them. The air around him started to tremble and coalesce into strange shapes, and a wind picked up out of nowhere.

“I thought you had to be a wizard to use that thing!” Peter yelled.

“Apparently not,” Toombs said. “Either way, I’m not stopping to find out.” 

He fired his gun. As far as Peter knew, it was the first time he had used it that night. 

It hit Rohan squarely in the shoulder, sending him stumbling backwards. It also dissipated whatever spell he’d been casting. Peter, just as quick, fired a web and yanked the book out of his arms, spinning it away over the polished marble floor. Toombs took aim again, and Peter shoved him bodily, tipping him off balance before he could get a shot off. 

“Do _not_ kill him.” Peter said, the most serious he had been all night. “It’s not _him_ , remember, it’s the book.”

Toombs turned on him, gun primed to fire. But Peter was ready for it. He darted forwards, wrenched the gun from its metal socket and threw it across the floor. He wasn’t sure what tentative line they had been walking tonight, but Toombs reaction just reminded Peter that he could never trust him. Peter suspected Toombs had been hired to steal this book, and that it was likely still his intention. 

“Fucking children,” Toombs bit out, before they were both distracted by a wheezing laugh. 

Rohan lay in a slowly spreading pool of blood. It appeared black in the dim moonlight. 

“Fools,” He said, his voice faint but no less taunting for it. “You forget, the book has a will of its own that easily matches yours or mine.” 

Before Peter could work out what he meant, Rohan had lifted his arm and the book was flying back through the air towards them. Peter, acting on pure instinct, lunged to intercept it and it hit him squarely in the chest. He was fumbling to catch it before his brain caught up with him. 

“ _No!_ ” Toombs shouted, but Peter already had it in his hands. He stared down at the shifting letters on the cover, but instead of the mesmerized look he had seen on Rohan’s face, Peter was engulfed by a surge of all-encompassing horror. A pulse of something that felt like prickling, angry energy started to spread through him from where his hands gripped the book. He dropped it immediately, backing away. 

Toombs approached slowly. If he hadn’t been wearing his helmet, Peter imagined he’d be eyeing him warily. Behind them, Rohan started to laugh madly. “What did the damn thing do?” Toombs asked. He didn’t make any move to pick up the book. 

“I don’t know.” Peter said. He pulled off one of his gloves, but there were no marks on his hand where he’d touched the book. Still, the feeling of something terribly wrong sat within him. 

Shaking it off, Peter warily approached the laughing man. Kneeling down beside him, he took stock of the wound. “Do you have anything to bind this with?” He asked over his shoulder. When he got no reply, he glanced back at Toombs, hoping the mask expressed some of his exasperation. 

“You think that’s your top priority right now?” Toombs asked, turning his head to the windows by the entrance way. “Cops will be here any minute with the commotion we’ve caused.”

Rohan finally quietened down. When Peter turned back around, he found he was staring right at him. “I wouldn’t be worrying about that, if I was you.” He said, a ghost of a smile pulling the corners of his bloodless lips. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Peter demanded, a frisson of nervous tension going through him. 

Toombs stalked back over, thrusting towards him a worn length of cloth that Peter suspected was used for wiping down his visor. For want of anything better to do and to distract himself from the thoughts tumbling over each other in his mind, he set about staunching the flow of blood from Rohan’s shoulder.

“Answer him.” Toombs said, crouching on Rohan’s other side. The wounded man remained silent. Toombs leaned in further. “Answer, or I’ll take over the bandage wrapping, and you won’t appreciate my bedside manner nearly as much.”

Rohan’s eyes rolled back for a moment, anticipating pain, before he finally answered. “It’s cursed him. A curse of bad luck on all those around him. The book _really_ must hate you.” Rohan wheezed another laugh. 

As if saying it out loud made it real, the bandage under Peter’s hands tore, and blood started to seep from under his fingers. Peter stared at it in horror for a few frozen moments, and then skidded backwards until he hit the base of the statue. 

“How is that possible?” Toombs demanded. “I thought the book drew people in, not cursed them.”

But Rohan didn’t reply, eyes rolling back in his head as he passed out from blood loss. 

Toombs looked up at Peter. Now would be the perfect time for him to make his escape. Peter thought he could hear the faint sounds of sirens approaching and he wasn’t exactly sure if going after Toombs himself would result in more or less destruction, now. 

But Toombs didn’t leave. He rose and slowly approached Peter, before awkwardly kneeling a few feet in front of him. “He could be lying,” Toombs offered, clearly uncomfortable.

“No,” Peter said quietly, “I felt the magic take hold, I just didn’t know what it was.” 

He didn’t know what he should do. He didn’t want to touch the book again, but he wasn’t sure how he could remove the curse without it.

“What are you still doing here anyway? Aren’t you afraid the ceiling’s going to cave in on you or something?” Peter asked cautiously. 

“I’ll take my chances.” Tooms returned evenly. 

He reached up to roughly remove his helmet, revealing his eyes, hard enough to cut steel. If he thought seeing his face was any better for Peter than looking at his visor, he was wrong. Peter’s gut clenched uncomfortably, but he held his eyes. He would not let this man see him crack again.

“I thought your helmet was the only thing protecting you from the book’s influence.” Peter said. Toombs surprised him with a crooked smile.

“Correct again, but it’s not in my line of sight and, to be honest with you, I want nothing to do with that book anymore.”

“Why should I believe you?” Peter asked, tone hard.

Toombs sighed, rubbing his head. “I don’t expect you to, you’ll just have to wait and see.”

Peter blinked. “You’re waiting for the cops to get here?” 

Toombs looked down at the metal talons attached to his boots, which had carved grooves into the soft marble beneath him. “Believe it or not, I didn’t _want_ to be broken out of prison, at least not for this purpose. Maybe I want to show my wife and my kid that I’m not a completely hopeless case, yet.”

He smirked, looking back up at Peter. “When I do break out of prison again, it will be for my _own_ purposes.”

Peter snorted. “You have a shocking lack of faith in our penal system. And a lack of faith in _me_ — you know I’ll have to send you right back.”

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” Toombs said. That was as close to an accord as they were going to get. 

But one thought was still niggling at the back of Peter’s mind. 

“Who sent you here, then?” 

Toombs jaw tensed as he stared down at the helmet in his hands for a moment, as if considering whether it was worth his life to say. Then he raised his eyes to meet Peter’s. “Osbourn. Normon Osbourn.”

Peter frowned, perplexed. He’d never thought Osbourn to be an especially likeable character. Then again most CEOs of billion dollar companies weren’t. Breaking people out of prison and having them steal a very illegal, very evil spell book, on the other hand… 

“What would Osbourn want with the Darkhold?”

“What do you think? To experiment with it, of course. Word is, he’s not doing so good — healthwise. He thinks the book might offer him a cure.”

That made… some sense. But only a desperate man would see the Darkhold as a potential cure. 

“Why did he need _you_ then? Unless… oh.”

Toombs nodded. “He needed a scapegoat if we were caught, someone to take the flack. I’m not your average low-life criminal. I play in his league, or at least, I’m someone who might know about the book and want to steal it. Also, there aren’t many high-profile criminals around who would be indebted to him for being broken out of prison.” He said pointedly. 

“You know you can’t tell the cops, or anyone else it was him then. If he can break you out of Ryker’s, he can also make sure you never leave it alive.”

Toombs rolled his eyes. “I’m not an idiot.” 

Peter considered this. “Why tell me then?”

Toombs let out a long breath. They could both hear the sirens now. “It pays to know who might be out to paint a target on your back. After all, I need to make sure you’re still here to fight me when I escape again  – it would be too easy otherwise.”

“Thank you.” Peter said quietly, able to read between the lines. Toombs cleared his throat, looking extremely uncomfortable. “Don’t mention it, seriously.”

The relative quiet that followed lasted only a second before a strange grinding noise reached their ears. Peter had a split second realisation before he was bowling Toombs over backwards, the heavy stone arm of the statue landing where Toombs had just been crouched. 

“Shit,” Peter said, breathing heavily. Toombs eyes widened from where he laid sprawled. Peter backed away, arms raised as if that would appease whatever magic was affecting him. 

“Right, okay. This has progressed from mildly life threatening to significantly life threatening.” Peter said, trying not to let the panic show in his voice.

“What are you going to do?” Toombs asked. He hadn’t moved from the floor, as if staying down might make him less of a target. 

“I don’t think I should be near anyone.” Peter said, biting his lip. The sirens were very loud now, and just below that he almost thought he caught the sound of something smoother, like thrusters. 

_Shit._

He looked behind him for the book, and quickly wrapped it in the fabric, careful not to touch it. He webbed it closed for good measure, before turning back to Toombs.

“I’m gonna have to web your hands and feet together,” He said, trying to sound more authoritative than apologetic. 

Toombs sighed. “Get on with it then,” he said, folding his hands behind his back. Peter made short work of tying him up, and then backed away quickly. 

He’d just resolved to climb back through the building and exit via the roof when the front doors burst open. Iron Man came striding in, red and gold armour shining in the dull light. Peter stared at him and, for a split second relief was all he felt. Until he remembered the curse. Then the horror gripped him once more. He wasn’t going to cause harm to someone else he cared about. 

“Kid?” Mr. Stark said, voice quiet and worried as his helmet retracted. But Peter had already begun backing away. No sooner had Tony taken a step forwards than Peter turned and sprinted back the way he’d come. 

He reached the roof in no time at all, jumping off and fleeing the approaching police lights before anyone caught up to him. Once again, he swung himself through the city, unsure where he was headed. He couldn’t go home. Aunt May would be there, and Peter would ensure no harm came to her. He turned instead towards the docks, and the ocean. 

Halfway there, some instinct prompted him to look down. It wasn’t his spidey-sense — at least, it didn’t feel like it. Below him he saw a dark narrow street that appeared empty until a small child appeared at one end, alone. 

Forgetting himself  Peter released his web and landed, worried. As he approached, he saw the child held a trash bag and was approaching a set of dumpsters. His heartbeat slowed somewhat. He was about to call out to make sure everything was okay when the child tripped, seemingly on nothing. The little girl landed on some scattered shards of glass littering the road and cried out. Peter froze, even as his heart sunk into the depths of his stomach, _knowing_ he had caused this.

Being unable to help was a new feeling for Peter. He edged around the kid, trying to keep his distance while reassuring her that help was on the way. He knocked loudly on the door he’d seen her emerge from, but was up at the roofline by the time the door opened and a worried looking parent rushed out to help the girl up and lead her back inside. Peter left, feeling like the worst kind of fool. 

The rest of his journey to the docks was thankfully uneventful. He set himself down by the water’s edge and buried his head in his knees, breathing in the briny scent of the dark water and trying to let that fill his head. 

_Damned Parker Luck._ He’d gone and jinxed himself. 

He sat there for a while, listening to the water lap the underside of the dock before footsteps approached, and someone sat down beside him. Peter jerked his head up, primed to spring away, but Mr. Stark held his hands up, his eyes gentle. He was out of the suit and back in civilian clothing. It didn’t make Peter feel any better.

“You’re not going to hurt me, Peter. Hear me out before you run.” He said. Peter stared at him warily before getting up to sit on an overturned crate a few feet away. Mr Stark sighed, but didn’t follow. 

“How did you find me?” Peter asked quietly.

“The energy signature of your suit is one of a kind.” Mr. Stark replied, smiling slightly. “It wasn’t easy, but it did in a pinch.”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter said, voice fragile, “first you need to tell me that Toombs is secure and no one’s taken the wrappings off the book. Then you need to leave because you _will_ get hurt — the book cursed me. Everyone around me suffers some sort of terrible bad luck.”

Mr. Stark’s face grew sombre. “The book has been sealed away and no one’s unwrapped it. Toombs surprised us by offering no resistance, he’s back in custody. But Peter, the curse isn’t what you think.”

Peter stared at him, uncomprehending. Mr. Stark swiftly continued. “As chance would have it, I was able to call on Dr. Strange to assess the situation after Toombs filled us in on what happened. He’s familiar with some of the spells within the book, including the one it placed on you. 

“You see, the thing about this curse is not that you actually cause all this misfortune for others, but that it draws you to places where something bad is about to happen and leaves you with the belief that you _yourself_ are the cause… it’s a neat little psychological trick that could easily break a person’s mind. The way Strange tells it, it would take too much power for the book to cast a curse on you that _also_ affects everyone around you. Much simpler, and no less effective, is to cast one that affects only you, but leads you to believe otherwise.”

Mr. Stark waited for Peter to take it all in. “But those things that happened, the bandage breaking and the statue falling and, and the—”

“Peter,” Mr Stark cut in, not unkindly, “did any of those things happen due to any sort of unnatural occurrence? Or could they have just been things that were bound to happen anyway?”

Peter stopped to think, trying to marshal his thoughts into some semblance of order. Problem-solving was something he could do.

First of all, Peter guessed he could have been distracted when tying the bandage. He might have forgotten to keep his strength entirely under check, and broke it. The statue, too, would have already been weakened by the blast from the grenade. 

The child could have just tripped.

But he was _so sure_ those events had been his fault. 

“How do I know- how do I know for sure?” Peter asked, trying not to let his voice waver. 

“The only way to break the curse is to realise that, essentially, there _is_ no curse.” Tony said gently. “Greater people have failed at lesser feats of judgement before, but those people aren’t _you_ Peter.” 

Peter swallowed around a strange lump in his throat. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Tony Stark so soft around the edges before. 

Tony smiled then. A startlingly fond look. “You know, Dr. Strange has a theory about why the book reacted to you the way it did. The book preys on a person’s weaknesses. For most people, it can twist its way into their deepest desires and wishes, and break down their resolve until they’re willing to do anything to get what they want. But you, Peter, your heart is simply too good. It couldn’t find a way to manipulate you, so it turned on you instead.

“It judged your greatest weakness to be your fear of hurting those around you — not just those close to you, but everyone you come in contact with. Pete I— I get that. Probably better than most people.”

Tony took a shaking breath in and Peter felt a tell-tale prickling behind his eyes.

“Peter,” Tony said, looking up at him, and this time Peter knew Tony was talking about what had occurred prior to the Vulture and the book. “I don’t often admit to making a mistake, but I think tonight I need to.”

At a sound from Peter, Tony shook his head and held a hand up. “Wait, let me say this first.”

He was silent for a long moment before he began. “When I first recruited you, I didn’t expect I would come to care for you so much. In the beginning, it was an issue because I made it that way. You’re an unprecedented phenomenon in my life and I thought by holding you at arm’s length, I could avoid any further attachment for both of us. But tonight, when I got the call that Toombs had escaped, and then you were just _gone_ …” 

He took a breath before continuing. “I have been, and always will be, a target for people wanting to get even. The Vulture proved that your association with me would get you dragged into my messes too. And kid, I couldn’t admit it to myself at first, but you getting hurt because of me is the last thing in the world I would ever want. 

“Tonight was an example of… one of my less impressive ideas. I thought I could control all aspects of the situation. Although I knew you got hurt in the process, you’d be safer for it.” He stopped, as if he was unsure of how to continue.

Peter sighed. “But you forgot that I’m my own person. At some point you’re going to have to realise that making all my decisions for me won’t work because I’m not your son.” He said quietly. 

Tony nodded, closing his eyes abruptly as if dealt a blow. Peter got up and approached him slowly. “But you _are_ my friend.” Peter said with a small smile. 

Tony’s head jerked up as if he hadn’t expected Peter to be there, forgiving him. “And while I know you don’t believe this, you _are_ worthy of being looked up to. That won’t change for me, ever. I think you know that.”

“Even after tonight?” Tony asked lightly, but Peter saw the hesitation there.

“Especially after tonight.” Peter said firmly, pulling his mask off so that Tony could see the resolution there. “So long as you don’t start handing out curfews and telling me to eat my greens.” Peter said, mock serious. 

“But it _is_ way past your bedtime,” Tony returned, laughing at the insulted look on Peter’s face. 

It seemed the most natural thing to reach up then, and suddenly Mr. Stark was pulling him into a firm hug. Peter didn’t realise it until he was gripping Mr. Stark tightly, but the prickling sensation that something was wrong had lifted from his chest. Peter felt warmed all the way through and lighter than he had done in weeks. 

“This wasn’t a hug, Mr. Stark,” Peter mumbled into his chest, grinning helplessly. “I was just brushing some dust off your shoulder.”

Tony choked out a laugh and held him tighter. 

**Finis**

**Author's Note:**

> So now I have to admit those bowling terms were totally made up.


End file.
